It’s the way her hand rests against my face,

as the canary flutters its wings

imitating how the curtains blow in the open window. 

The bare apartment frozen in time,

the orange slices by the afternoon tea, 

the atmosphere of divinity; 

her palm becomes my theology, 

her fingers my sanctification.

Running down the dim lit hallway, 

calling it living, 

everything and nothing 

become one and the same. 

I’m afraid she’ll die before me, 

leave my tears to stain white sheets, 

the cold of her soft body lying in a coffin 

fastens my eyes shut, 

praying the darkness will swallow my rattled bones. 

These are the fears that keep me up at night, 

but maybe the whole point 

is to hold the warmth of her body close, 

allow the sun to shine, 

stuck on this elevator, 

hurtling into the ground.